


Counterparts

by IreneADonovan



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Disabled Character, Charles in a Wheelchair, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Post-XMFC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-30 02:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10151861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/pseuds/IreneADonovan
Summary: Begins almost immediately post-XMFC.  Hank is waiting for Charles to wake up. This will chronicle what happened between FC and DOFP and at least some of what happened post-DOFP. I've really been wanting to explore a Charles/Hank relationship, their interdependence and co-dependence, and I finally got it started. I'm planning on taking this to several years past the events of DOFP, at least through the reopening of the school. Beyond that, I'll see.





	1. Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> My hard drive is now (temporarily) empty of postable works . I promise, though, there will be more coming soon. I want to get the "Rush and Beer" road trip written ASAP, then I'll do more of this and of "'Til It's Gone," and the "Heated Exchanges" sequel (as soon as I figure it out), plus I've got a half-finished prompt fill and another written-on-my-phone quickie I'm almost done with. Life? I don't have a life. I exist to write. That and movie nights with my best friend, the one who re-introduced me to this fandom a few months ago. (Not sure whether to kiss him or curse him. Mmn, neither, probably. Like him too much to curse him, and kissing him would be like kissing my brother, if I had one.) And I'm rambling...

Waiting was hell.  


Hank McCoy stared at the clock on the wall of the surgical waiting room, willing it to move at something beyond a crawl. He'd watched it tick off five-six-seven-eight hours, now creeping toward nine, and he was getting edgy as hell. He'd paced for the first four hours, before fatigue had caught him, and he was feeling the need to pace again.  


He supposed the lengthy wait was good news. Charles must still be alive, against all the odds.  


Getting out of Cuba had also been hell. It had taken hours and hours to make their way to Miami, relying all-too-heavily on Charles' abilities in order to remain undetected. And all the while Charles had grown weaker and weaker. Hank had been able to slow the flow of blood but not completely stop it, and the rigors of travel hadn't helped.  


Also worrisome was Charles' inability to feel or move his legs. Ideally he should have been moved only with extreme care, not scooped up in Hank's arms, carried for miles, jolted over rutted roads and rough seas. Hank was afraid this might have cost Charles any chance at walking again, but saving his life had taken priority.  


Yet as weak as Charles had become, he had still had the strength, presence of mind, and the kindness to send a blanket suggestion to everyone in and around the hospital that Hank was a perfectly normal-looking man. Otherwise Hank would have been hiding somewhere, not in the waiting room staring at a clock.  


Moira was trying to read, but she hadn't turned a page for twenty minutes. Sean and Alex sat side by side, looking subdued, talking quietly and casting anxious glances toward the doors at the end of the hall every time they swung open. Hank rose, resuming his attempt to wear a path on the already-worn carpet.  


At the nine-and-a-half-hour mark, a weary-looking surgeon emerged and walked up to them. “Are you Mr. Xavier's family?”  


Hank paused in his pacing and nodded.  


“He's very lucky to be alive. The bullet did extensive damage to his spine, and he lost significant blood volume. I understand there was a delay in seeking treatment?”  


“Yes,” Moira answered. “We took the family boat out on a fishing trip, and we were attacked and robbed. They shot Charles just to show they were serious.” She reeled off the cover story they'd concocted, her voice strong, though it cracked as she spoke Charles' name. “It took us hours to make it to shore.”  


“I'm sorry,” the doctor said. “Your brother must have a strong will to live.”  


Hank didn't know of anyone with a stronger will or a greater zest for life. “How is he?”  


“I removed a lot of bone fragments and fused two vertebrae. He's in critical condition, but I'm cautiously optimistic. We'll know more in twenty-four hours.”  


“Can we see him?” Alex asked.  


The doctor nodded. “Once he's settled in ICU, though I'm afraid the visits are limited to ten minutes every two hours.”  


“What about his legs?” Sean asked the question they all wanted to ask.  


The surgeon looked truly apologetic. “The bullet severed his spinal cord. I'm afraid your brother will be permanently paralyzed from the waist down.”  


As the news sank in, the doctor excused himself.  


Hank dropped onto a chair, a series of images flashing through his mind. Charles standing confidently beside a mannequin as Hank himself edged away. Charles running beside him. Charles dancing with Raven one night after dinner. Charles falling to the sand as his legs collapsed underneath him.  


****

**~xXx~**

 **  
**

Hospitals were bad places for telepaths to be. Too much pain. Too much suffering. Too much death. It was a small mercy, that first week, that Charles remained in a coma, oblivious to the misery.  


A mercy that did not extend into the second week. As Charles edged back toward consciousness, Hank could see the raw agony twist his friend's features and knot his fists. The nurses attributed it to nightmares, or memories of the “boat trip,” but Hank knew it was more.  


Yet what could he do? They couldn't move Charles, not yet. He was barely out of ICU, still far too weak for a journey back to Westchester, though Moira had gone ahead to see to the renovation of a ground-floor room into a suite that would meet Charles' immediate needs.  


Whatever those needs were going to be. They were all still trying to wrap their minds around the doctor's pronouncement: Charles would never walk again.  


Complete transsection of the spinal cord at T11-T12. Hank had read Charles' file when no one was looking, seen the grim prognosis spelled out in clinical terms, and his mind had immediately attacked the problem as the scientist he was. Maybe he could develop a neural regeneration agent, or at least something to act as a bridge between the severed halves of Charles' spinal cord.  


Then he'd glanced down at one blue-furred paw and stopped himself. His last attempt to tinker with biology hadn't turned out so well.  


Fortunately Charles' suggestion to the hospital staff seemed to be holding, so he could at least visit Charles. He nodded at several nurses he passed, then stepped into Charles' room.  


Alex looked up, his blue eyes weary, all traces of cockiness gone from his face.  


“How is he?” Hank asked.  


“Restless. It's a little better when I hold his hand, but not much.”  


Hank sighed. It would be a long night. “Go back to the hotel. Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning.”  


Alex nodded wearily, rose from his chair. “Okay, bro, he's all yours.” He and Sean had been trading shifts with Charles during the days, leaving the nights for Hank, when it was easiest for him to slip in and out of the hotel unseen.  


Hank slid into the seat Alex had vacated, evaluating Charles' appearance, not liking what he saw. Charles, the most vibrant, vital man Hank had ever met, was now frail and haunted, his fair skin translucent, dark hair lank and greasy, his sparkling blue eyes closed.  


He took Charles' hand and clasped it to his chest, pleased when the lines of tension on his face eased and those impossibly red lips curved upward just a hair. The peacefulness wouldn't last, but Hank would enjoy it for as long as he could.  


Two hours later, Charles remained content, but Hank was going nuts. Leaning forward like this was causing cramps in his neck and shoulders and he itched to move, but he wouldn't.  


He heard a nurse enter, not that unusual, but then he heard the chart she carried clatter to the floor.  
Hank looked up, saw Raven, red-haired and blue-skinned. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.  


“I had to see him. How is he?”  


“Alive, no thanks to you.” The depth of the coldness in his voice surprised him. “We barely got him here in time.”  


She had the decency to flinch. “But he'll be all right, won't he?”  


Hank said nothing, just continued to glare at her.  


“Hank, tell me my brother is going to recover.”  


“He won't, not entirely.” He took a certain grim pleasure in her horrified look. “Erik's bullet shattered his spine. He's never going to walk again.”  


Raven looked like she'd been struck. “You're sure?”  


“Read that chart you dropped.”  


She glanced down at it, then returned her gaze to Hank. “Just give me the highlights.”  


“Two shattered vertebrae, severed spinal cord.”  


Raven stared at Charles for a long moment, then she closed her eyes. “I shouldn't have come. He'll be better off without me.”  


“He won't. You're his sister. He needs you.” Hank was surprised by his words, giver the hostility he felt, but they rang true.  


Raven shook her head. “There's no going back. I can't be the person he wants me to be, and I definitely can't be the person he'll need me to be now.” She walked over, brushed a lock of hair from Charles' brow, kissed his cheek. “Take care of him for me, Hank. I was never here.”  


Hank nodded slowly as she turned, morphing back into the nurse's form. She retrieved the fallen chart and exited silently.  


When Hank looked back to Charles, a tear was trickling down his friend's cheek.  


  
**~xXx~**  


  


Charles opened his eyes three nights later. Those bright blue orbs were hazed with pain and confusion, but Hank could see a glimmer of Charles' keen intelligence in their depths.  


“Welcome back,” Hank said softly.  


Charles frowned, glancing around the room. “What happened?” His voice, two weeks unused, was little more than a croak, but it was still the sweetest sound Hank had ever heard.  


“What's the last thing you remember?”  


Charles' brow knit in concentration. “Cuba. The beach. Erik killed Shaw.” His frown grew deeper. “The fleets fired on us. Erik stopped the missiles, but he turned them back on the ships. I tried to stop him.”  


Charles fell silent as he fought to remember. Hank didn't push, just waited to see what memories would emerge. Maybe some would never return, and that might be a blessing.  


“H-he shot me. Erik shot me.” Charles' voice shook with– Pain? Anger? Grief? Hank wasn't entirely sure.  


Technically, Erik had deflected the bullet into Charles' spine, but the damage left behind was no technicality. “Yes,” Hank said.  


“And then he left. Raven, too.” Anger and pain and grief, all three, no question.  


Wordlessly, Hank enfolded Charles' hand in a huge furry paw.  


Charles squeezed it weakly, looked around again. “Clearly I'm in a hospital. How did I get here?”  


“We knew we had to get out of Cuba quickly. And quietly. I carried you overland through the jungle for a few miles. Then we were able to commandeer an old Caddy and its owner, or rather you did.” Hank waggled the fingers of his other hand by his temple in explanation. “He drove us further up the coast, with you getting us past several roadblocks and checkpoints. Then you got us a boat, though I didn't think it could possibly stay afloat. Fortunately, Miami is only ninety miles away.”  


“Miami. So that's where we are, then.” A few minutes conversation, and Charles looked exhausted.  


Hank nodded. “We barely got you here in time. Another hour and they probably couldn't have saved you.”  


Another weak squeeze of his hand. “Thank you, Hank. Thank the others for me.” And with that Charles slipped back into unconsciousness.  


Hank waited until he was sure Charles would not immediately rouse again, then he slipped out just long enough to place calls to the hotel and the mansion.  


****

**~xXx~**

  


Alex and Sean showed up together the next morning, Sean looking groggy and complaining Alex had dragged him out uncaffeinated. Alex looked unrepentant.  


Hank said, “Sorry, guys. He hasn't woken up again,” just as Charles did exactly that.  


His eyes looked a bit clearer this time, more alert, though his face remained gaunt and etched with pain, his fair skin stretched too thin over the bones. “Sean. Alex.” He managed a soft smile, raised a shaky hand toward them.  


The pair moved as one, grasping the proferred hand. “How ya feeling?” Sean asked.  


Charles sighed. “Like a load of shite, actually. I guess that happens when you get shot.” A mirthless laugh as he made a feeble attempt to move his upper body, then he grimaced. “My lower back feels like someone took a blowtorch to it. The drugs they're giving me must be doing some good, though, because the rest of me just feels sort of numb.”  


Hank, Sean, and Alex exchanged a brief look that said, “Not yet. We'll tell him when he's back to himself.”  


Charles didn't even notice the exchange – his eyes were drifting shut again.  


“I'll be back tonight,” Hank promised. “Alex and Sean will be with you until I get back.”  


Charles gave a faint nod, then he was gone again.  


“If he wakes up and wants answers, call me,” Hank said as he gathered his things. “Otherwise I'll be back tonight,”  


When he got back to the hotel, he called Moira.  


“How is he?” she asked.  


“Still pretty out of it. He came to again as I was about to leave, but only for a couple of minutes.”  


“What does he remember?” Hank heard the hesitation in Moira's voice; she wasn't sure she wanted the answer.  


“He remembers Erik shooting him, Erik and Raven leaving, nothing after that.”  


“Does he know?” The words were almost whispered.  


“That he's paralyzed? No, not yet, though I think he suspects on some level. He said the drugs were making him numb.”  


Moira gasped, ever so faintly. “Do you know how long before he's released? The renovations will take at least another week, maybe two.”  


“I doubt he'll be ready to travel before then. Though the sooner we get him out of that hospital, the better.”  


“Agreed.” She paused for a moment, then spoke again. “I've spoken with a number of specialists, trying to learn what Charles is going to need. They all say it's going to be a long, hard road.”  


“I'm not going anywhere.”  


Hank could hear her smile over the phone. “Good. Neither am I,” she said.  


****

**~xXx~**

  


Alex was passed out on the other double-bed when Hank awoke, so he tiptoed into the bathroom to clean up, then hit the road for the hospital.  


Sean was dozing in a chair when Hank walked in, but he came awake with a jerk. “Hey, Hank.”  


“How is he?”  


“He's stirred a few times, enough to recognize me, but not enough to talk.”  


“Go get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.”  


Sean nodded tiredly and ambled off.  


Charles seemed restive tonight, uneasy, troubled. As Hank watched, the other man's face twisted into a scowl and he tossed his head side-to-side as if trying to dodge away.  


Hank slid into his seat and took Charles' hand, the one not hooked to an IV, cradling it in his own. Charles didn't relax, and Hank growled to himself in frustration. Mindful of his claws, he began massaging his friend's hand and forearm, then up his arm to his neck and shoulders and head.  


Charles still didn't relax entirely, but the haunted, hunted look left his features. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and smiled faintly. “Thank you, Hank.”  


“It's nothing.”  


“It most assuredly is not nothing.” Charles made a futile attempt to shift, slumped back against the mattress.  


“Let me.” Hank slipped an arm behind Charles' shoulders and eased him over a hair, then plumped the pillow with his other hand. “Better?”  


“Yes.” Charles' eyes closed wearily, and for a moment Hank thought he'd fallen back into unconsciousness, but then those impossibly blue eyes opened again, and this time Hank saw confusion and worry in their depths.  


Charles looked down, lifted an unsteady hand and placed it on his thigh, squeezing gently. He met Hank's gaze again, alarm and reluctant comprehension now edging out the confusion. “I thought it was the drugs, that that was why I don't feel my legs,” he said, “but it isn't, is it?”  


“No, Charles, it isn't.”  


Charles drew in a ragged breath. “How bad?” he asked. “Is there any hope?”  


Hank glanced away, then regretfully shook his head. “None,” he said softly. “The bullet severed your spinal cord.”  


“No,” Charles whispered. “G-d, no.” Tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and he made no attempt to brush them away.  


Hank wrapped his hand around Charles', holding it silently, as his friend wept.


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles comes home. Moira gets drunk and swears (a lot). Sean and Alex blow stuff up. Hank tries to hold them all together.

It was almost three more weeks before Charles was strong enough to travel. His body was healing, as much as it could, but his spirit seemed broken. He'd withdrawn into himself, barely speaking, even to the remaining members of his team.  


Hank knew he was in mourning, not just over the loss of his legs, but also over the defection of Raven and Erik. He understood, intellectually, that grief was a process, but that didn't help him or the others much as they tried to be there for their friend.  


It didn't help that they were all running on fumes. Charles' control over his telepathy remained shaky, made worse by the painkillers he couldn't yet do without, and it had been risky to leave him alone and defenseless in the hands of medical professionals who didn't understand his unique needs.  


The trip to Westchester was grueling, and though Charles slept through much of the flight, he was awake, in pain, and lashing out verbally on the too-long drive from the airport. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the gates of the Xavier mansion came into view.  


Charles scowled when Hank lifted him from the car and into a wheelchair, the scowl growing deeper when he saw the first of the alterations to the mansion, a ramp leading up to the front door.  


Moira met them at the door, the relief on her face when she saw Charles subsiding into renewed worry as she saw his sullen, withdrawn expression. She gave him a quick hug, which he ignored. “I'm tired,” he said. “I need to lie down.”  


Moira pasted a smile on her face, concealing her hurt, and led the way to Charles' new suite. Charles showed no reaction to the room remade for him save for a slight thinning of his lips.  


Hank lifted him from the chair, arranged him on the bed. Charles muttered a curt, insincere thanks, then shut his eyes, effectively dismissing everyone.  


Moira frowned, left the room quickly, Hank and Sean and Alex on her heels. She ducked into Charles' study long enough to liberate a bottle of scotch, then headed for the kitchen, where she poured a generous serving into her empty coffee mug. She belted some of it back, winced at the burn, said, “Well, fuck,” to no one in particular.  


Alex took three juice glasses from a cupboard and poured drinks for himself, Sean, and Hank. Hank seldom drank, but this time he took the proferred glass and sipped at it.  


“How long has he been like this?” Moira asked.  


“Angry? Depressed?” Hank swallowed more scotch. “Pretty much from the time he was awake enough to know what happened.”  


Moira downed another slug. “It's all my fault.”  


“No, Moira,” Sean insisted.  


“Yes,” she said. “It was my bullet that did this to him.” She finished her drink, reached for the bottle.  


“ _Erik_ deflected it,” Alex said.  


“But it was _my_ bullet,” she repeated.  


Hank slammed his glass down on the table, causing everyone to jump. “Guys, it doesn't matter whose fault it is. What matters right now is we find a way to help Charles.”  


“Does he even want our help?” Sean asked glumly.  


“I doubt he knows right now,” Hank said. “He lost so much in a matter of minutes – his sister, his best friend, his legs. That's a lot for anyone to process, even the Professor.”  


“In other words,” Moira said, knocking back still more scotch, “give him some fucking time. Time heals all fucking wounds, or some happy horseshit like that. Except if the wound is in your spine, and then there's not a fucking thing anyone can do.”  


She reached for the bottle again, but Hank slid it out of her reach. “Yes, he needs time,” he said. “And no, time doesn't always heal, but it can bring a measure of acceptance.” He downed the rest of his drink. “So can we all hang in there until then?”  


Sean and Alex nodded. Moira giggled drunkenly, said a slightly slurred “Okay.”  


**~xXx~**  


The next morning, the first of the private nurses Moira had hired arrived bright and early and annoyingly cheerful. Charles was still half-asleep and quite surly, but Elsa seemed unfazed.  


She was a mutant herself, but with only a minor talent – she could change her hair color at will. But it meant Hank didn't have to hide. She shooed him out politely but firmly. “I need to get him ready for the day. You'll just be underfoot.”  


Hank headed for the kitchen, where he could smell coffee brewing. Sean sat at the table, bleary-eyed and groggy, coffee cup in front of him. “There's cereal in the cupboard and pastries in the box on the counter, if you're hungry.”  


Hank retrieved a cup from an upper cupboard, added “reorganize kitchen” to his mental list of things that needed to be done to accommodate Charles, poured the coffee. He took a cinnamon twist from the box, wrapped it in a paper napkin, took the seat across from Sean.  


Alex stumbled in a few minutes later, headed straight for the coffee. He slouched against the counter, cradling his cup in both hands, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it. “Oh, man,” he groaned, “I drank too much last night.”  


“Join the club,” Sean muttered.  


Hank couldn't help but feel a little smug. He'd had the sense to stop after one glass.  


“You still up for some target practice?” Sean asked.  


“Target practice?” Hank asked.  


“Yeah,” Sean said. “When we were here before, we found some crates full of old bottles and shit. We were gonna throw 'em up in the air, use them for target practice then, but we never got the chance.”  


Alex gave Hank an appraising stare. “You know, with your enhanced strength, you'd be really good at tossing the bottles.”  


They were willing to include him? Hank had always been the geek, the outcast. Guys like Alex had always been his worst enemies. Maybe there were actually some pluses to this new form. “Okay,” he said, working to keep his voice from shaking. “I'm gonna clean up the lab. Come find me when you're ready.”  


Hank was nearly finished cleaning the debris out of the trashed lab when Sean and Alex came for him. They hauled two crates out to a field a fair – and hopefully safe – distance from the mansion.  


Sean and Alex lined up with their backs facing the mansion. Hank stayed well back from the line of fire and began lofting bottles.  


**~xXx~**  


All Charles wanted was to be left alone.  


No, that wasn't really true. He wanted a lot of things, mostly things he couldn't have. He wanted his sister back. He wanted Erik in ways he dared not name. And most of all, he wanted his fucking legs back.  


Of course he wasn't likely to get any of those, especially not the last. His shattered vertebrae would heal; his severed nerves would not.  


He stared gloomily at his lifeless legs. They still looked so normal, like he should be able to plant them on the ground and stand, to climb the stairs, to run the paths outside.  


He slammed his fist down on his thigh, then did it again. And again. It felt good. Satisfying. And of course it also felt like nothing at all.  


“Mr. Xavier.”  


Ah, bloody hell. Nurse Perky was back from her lunch break. “Dr. Xavier, if you please.”  


“Dr. Xavier, then,” she said, undeterred. “You mustn't do that. You could injure yourself seriously and never know.”  


Undoubtedly true, not that he cared. “Miss Swanson, please remember that I am your employer,” he said icily. “If I feel like pounding on my legs, that is my business and mine alone.”  


She met his gaze, unflinching. “I was hired to look after your well-being. Allowing you to pound on your legs like that is clearly not in my job-description.”  


Point, set, and match to Nurse Perky.  


Charles sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.


End file.
